


A Sharp Dressed Man

by EmpatheticVoice



Series: Sherlock Jukebox [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comedy, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 06:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18138812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpatheticVoice/pseuds/EmpatheticVoice
Summary: A routine day in the life of Mycroft Holmes.





	A Sharp Dressed Man

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Song And Characters Used Do Not Belong To Me.
> 
> Song Used - Sharp Dressed Man - ZZ Top

* * *

Like in many other aspects of his life, Mycroft Holmes awoke with regimented precision. He allowed himself no more than sixty seconds to lie in before willing himself to get up. Once upright, he thrusted his belly out, bending backwards into a stretch while emitting a rather moderately sized yawn in his satin royal _(of course)_ blue pajamas. His toes curl into the plush Oriental rug, while he scratches his lower back and looks for his bedroom slippers, always finding them at the edge of the rug. Once donned, he makes his way to his bathroom to get himself ready for the day.

* * *

_Clean shirt, new shoes_

_And I don't know where I am goin' to._

_Silk suit, black tie,_

_I don't need a reason why._

_They come runnin' just as fast as they can_

_Cause every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man._

* * *

Mycroft pads his way into his closet, in which to perform his secretly most favorite action of the day. Though he would loath to admit it aloud, he has a similar affinity for clothes as is brother, Sherlock. Clothes make the man as it were, and Mycroft knows in his line of work, that image is everything. He always chooses home-grown British designers such as, Gieves and Hawkes, Reiss, and Paul Smith. It was just another way to show his loyalty and patriotism by supporting his country, unlike his brother with his Italian purple monstrosity of a shirt from Dolce & Gabbana that he frequently wears. Mummy taught them better, to accept nothing less than the fine tailoring of Saville Row. He picks his armor for the day, along with an appropriate tie. He wonders what would the reactions of his co-workers would be if ever chose something inappropriate, something in an awful color or horrible print. He smirks at the thought.

* * *

_Gold watch, diamond ring,_

_I ain't missin' not a single thing._

_Cufflinks, stick pin,_

_When I step out I'm gonna do you in._

_They come runnin' just as fast as they can_

_'Cause every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man._

* * *

 He moves to his bureau and first attaches his cufflinks to his sleeves. He cannot stand his arms looking untidy. Next, he tacks down his tie to his shirt with his stickpin. He shrugs into his jacket and tugs at the lapels. He slips his watch over his wrist and then his gold ring. Mycroft examines himself in the mirror, checking for discrepancies and making sure his appearance is up to his fastidious standards.

He allows himself a glass of orange juice, served on a silver tray _(of course_ ), to tide him over until he can reach the office. He often has a coffee and pastry there, while going over the major newspaper headlines from various sources around the world. He sends a text for his car by his phone, and briefly gives himself another look over in the hallway mirror before stopping at his umbrella stand by the door. Mycroft grabs his trusted brolly, giving his wrist a brief circular flick before he goes out the door to the waiting car.

Mycroft would loath to outwardly admit that arriving to his office is his second favorite action of the day. Like clockwork, Anthea, and his other PA's are waiting for him at the door. Their entourage is often accosted by people who wish to "speak" to him. Knowing how much he detests making small talk (shudder), these people are effectively managed and deflected by his team. It is a long walk to his office, and his group move with him like a pride of lions. People turn their heads when they pass, some expressions in awe, some in fear. It is a small moment where he radiates power, as the man who is the British government. A small satisfying ego boost, for a man who spends most of his time in the shadows.

The day passes in its usual fashion, with various meetings and what not. In the late afternoon, Lady Smallwood arrives to his office for their meeting and update on various Home Office issues. Mycroft notices the way her eyes repeatedly flick over him assessingly, as he leans back in his chair at the end of their discussion. After the return of Eurus to Sherrinford, Mycroft elected not to call her during her week off for drinks. They eye each other up, expecting the other to speak first.

Lady Smallwood concedes defeat first and asks, "Are you aware of the upcoming dinner the Prime Minister is holding?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Yes." He sneers. "It has been strongly suggested that I attend."

She shares his disdain, with the current administration. Politicians come and go, but they remain the same. It is simply a matter of riding it out.

"They are such a bloody bore." She agrees. "It is always difficult to scrounge up a plus one. Wouldn't you agree?" She sighs and leans back in her chair.

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow at her, vaguely getting an impression of what she is on about. These dinners are more about image, displays of influence and power. A room of powerful peacocks, attempting be something more than what they actually are. It was one of the reasons Mycroft was often required to attend these functions was his ability to discern and sift through the truth and lies.

"I suppose…" He treads carefully.

Lady Smallwood stands up and leans forward slightly so their heads are eye level with each other. "All the more reason to pool our resources, don't you think?"

Mycroft can see the interest in her eyes. He seems to be baffled by for a moment.

"Well…" He starts.

Lady Smallwood turns her back to him and cuts him off. "Pick me up at six." She uses her strong no-nonsense tone.

She steps towards the door, then turns her head and smiles at him coquettishly, "After all, you do owe me."

Mycroft visible gulps.

_Damn you Sherlock._

* * *

_Top coat, top hat,_

_And I don't worry 'cause my wallet's fat._

_Black shades, white gloves,_

_Lookin' sharp lookin' for love._

_They come runnin' just as fast as they can '_

_Cause every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man._

* * *

 Mycroft does indeed not fail to impress in his tuxedo, if the dilation in Lady Smallwood's eyes are any indication. The night goes off without a hitch, as the pair amuse each other with silent expressions of mutual exasperation as they meet, greet, and schmooze with various foreign dignitaries and ambassadors.

It is when they are back in the car that Mycroft feels the atmosphere change between them.

"Thank you for escorting me, Mycroft." She says lowly.

"It was not…unpleasant." He replies.

Apparently, that is all the permission Lady Smallwood needs. She kisses him on his cheek, dangerously close to the edge of his lips.

"L-Lady Smallwood…" He stutters slightly clearly uncomfortable.

"Hmm?" She murmurs.

She seems busy attempting to tug loose the knot on his bowtie, while trying to plant kisses on his neck and jawline.

Mycroft pulls his head away. "There is something you should know." He says in a sharpened authoritative tone.

Her eyes look glazed with desire. She likes authoritative.

"I'm gay."

****

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A special thank you to the Sherlockology fansite for providing the clothing information.


End file.
